


Memories Were Their Present and Now They’re Ours

by akingdomofunicorns



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Incest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:51:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingdomofunicorns/pseuds/akingdomofunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lions and dragons are not so different from each other. After all, they both think they're the masters of the Universe and incest is kind of their thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories Were Their Present and Now They’re Ours

It should have made her feel dirty, it should have made her feel filthy; instead, she had only felt empty and dull, like she’s felt ever since she’s lost everything dear to her. It’s no surprise when the Targaryens annul her marriage to Trys and declare her son a bastard, it’s no surprise when they summon her to watch her mother and _father_ (it feels so very wrong, to call Uncle Jaime that, so wrong it pains her) loose their heads; she’s sure she’s to follow, first her and then Tommen, and that her babe will grow a Sand with the rest of Oberyn’s children, but she’s only exiled to the Free Cities. It should have been a relief, but it really isn’t.

They drag her away from baby Quentyn screaming and kicking, and she watches as Trys takes him away from her. He later comes to her room, apologising, telling her how much he loves her, but she can’t bare to listen to his lies. She claws at his face with her nails, trying to tear his putrid tongue right off his mouth, but there’s no such luck. Trys had loved her, Trys had been gentle, Trys had cared for her, but Trys is weak and he’s also a coward, and he won’t fight for Quentyn, is seems, let alone for her.

They are given fifty days to depart Westeros, a mercy she does not want, not from them. She leaves a letter for Arianne, another for Quentyn and a last one for Prince Doran, who’s still alive and battling away his sickness. King Aegon takes both his aunt Daenerys and his cousin, Arianne, as wives, and he asks his half brother, Jon Targaryen (she remembers him well, Jon Snow, who everyone had thought was the bastard son of good Ned Stark, brother to the late King Robb, who she’d loved innocently, with the sweetness of a little girl), to marry his own cousin, Lady Sansa in the north.

Arianne comes to her fifteen days before she’s to take a ship that will get her to Braavos, letter in hand. Her eyes look at her with pity, but Myrcella doesn’t let that get to her; she’s very much like her mother in many things, but pity is not something that hurts her in any way —she likes it, even, she takes advantage of it.

“I am very sorry, Myrcella.”

“You have no reason to feel sorry, Your Grace. But if I may ask that the King reconsider his decision to name Quentyn a bastard… You are Queen now and Lord Trystane will inherit Sunspear, I cannot go knowing they’re taking everything away from my son. He is no bastard, Your Grace, and he shouldn’t have to pay for the sins of my parents.” It’s a hidden accusation and they both know it; Arianne might be strong and hot-headed, but she’s no stranger to gentleness and love, and she’s learnt to love the little lioness through the years.

“I shall see what can be done.”

“Thank you, my queen.”

“If not, I promise you I’ll raise him as my own.”

“It’s not something your Royal Husband and your sister-wife will like.”

“It’s something they’ll have to learn to live with. Quentyn is my blood and so are you; I can’t save you, but I can save him and I’ll make sure he gets what he deserves. But you should know, dear, that your uncle the Imp has asked to make Quentyn his heir, and he shall inherit Casterly Rock if His Grace accepts it.”

“If he has to be a bastard, I want him to be a Hill, Quentyn Hill. Promise me, Arianne, promise me.”

“I do, I promise.”

She also gives her the letter for Quentyn, for when he is older, and a locket that was her mother’s with a lock of her hair inside. It pains her greatly that she’s not allowed to say goodbye to her baby, but she doesn’t cry and neither does Tommen, not even when the smallfolk gather around the docks to scream at them and throw them rotten food. She doesn’t think anything can hurt her anymore.

She’s always loved Tommen more than the rest; in fact, Tommen is the only person who was worth anything in her damned family, the only one for who she’d ever sacrifice herself. If it weren’t for him, she would have gone down fighting, she would have burnt all those fucking Targaryens (not Jon Snow, never Jon Snow, who’s more Stark than dragon) and she would have smashed Trys’ head against a wall, just as the Mountain had done to the babe everyone had thought was Aegon. But she hadn’t, because Tommen wouldn’t have anyone if she died, and she can’t leave him alone. Tommen is a part of her, just as Quentyn, just as Trys used to be (she had loved Trys, she had loved him with all her heart in her own way).

She dyes Tomm’s hair black, and he’s so tall he could easily pass for a Baratheon, but they’re not, they are Lannisters, everything is in their blood. It is no surprise, then, that sharing a cot for warmth brings them closer, so close it isn’t hard to get rid of his clothes and press her creamy flesh against his. She hasn’t shed all of the weight she put while pregnant, but she knows it won’t be long before she’s thin as a stick, but Tomm doesn’t care. He’s eager to please her and he loves her with a love so pure it brings tears to her eyes.

They take the names Myrace and Tom and no one asks them anything but their lastnames —she makes it up at the moment, Barhill, and Tommen laughs and kisses her scarred cheek.

They’re not free, not at all (she thinks of the stretchmarks in her thighs and her stomach, of Quentyn’s green eyes and brown skin, of Mother’s gentle hands and Father’s scratchy beard), but they try to live in the present. It’s no good, memories haunt them like they must have haunted Mother and Uncle Jaime; the only difference is that the gods punished them for other people’s crimes and they have abandoned them already, so it’s not like they’re going to punish them for what they’re doing now. And even if they did, they don’t care anymore, because they’re past the point of no return. 


End file.
